Straying Into Dream
by crumpetbeast
Summary: You've heard the story of a brave man led astray by the One Ring, but have you heard it all? (Complete)
1. 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, places, concepts, etc (with the possible exception of Illisien) contained herein--that credit goes all to that genius which we know today as J.R.R. Tolkien. I cannot hope to have given him or his fabulous works justice in this modest piece, but I hope it is enough for a bit of enjoyment at least. His works inspire in me fantasy like no other: Middle-earth simply _is _fantasy. That said, I ask only one thing: please don't sue me, for I am but a lowly bard who could yield no coin if pressed. 

**Straying into Dream**

Lorien: a place of peace and comfort, pleasant and wondrous to all, save one. Boromir of Gondor, immersed in his plaguing thoughts, sat oppressed beneath the ancient boughs, a deathlike calm pervading all the air, like the stale cold draft of a barrow. The place brought him no comfort, no peace in his struggles. It felt like a dark place that had died long ago, its twinkling lights no different from those which were said to pepper the Dead Marshes. 

He longed to see the white towers of Minas Tirith, to see his father and his brother, to give them what aid and strength he had. Ever the Ring was on his mind, its power and its so-called evil. Yes, perhaps it was evil on the hand of Sauron, but on the finger of the great Denethor, who would wield it only for the good of his people? Always Boromir felt the presence of the Ring, and somewhere deep in his heart recognized its call, but in his mind he felt in control, he felt strong and steady against any stray, were it not for the doubts that assailed him when off his guard. He was a good man, a warrior and a son of King-kind, but even he was not Elven-wise or master of Lore; he could not absolutely cast his sword aside for this thing, no matter how tempting its might may be. This grieved him, for he had once thought himself to be a great war-captain, the mightiest of generals beneath his father. 

Deep in thought, Boromir did not notice the approach of the Elven maiden, draped in filmy white, bearing the mark Galadriel's handmaidens wore. Upon her face was a wise countenance, held carefully still as Elves of great age tend to do, but her eyes were wide and kind. She held in her hands a single _elanor _blossom, and her delicate wreath matched that lovely bloom with all the skill of Elvish hands. 

"Your mind is troubled, strong Boromir. Throw your cares away, for naught can touch you within the bounds of Lorien. The Lady Galadriel sees far abroad these lands, and knows much." The fair Elf maid stared unblinking into Boromir, into his very soul it seemed. "This I think you know already," 

"Who are you?" Boromir, son of Denethor, demanded, dragging a hand across his gritty face to ill-conceal his troubled look. "Who sent you?" 

"I am Illisien, handmaiden of Galadriel, sent by she. I have come to bring you comfort, my liege, for you would have none if left to your own devices." The lady knelt before Boromir, and brought a cool hand to his brow. As she passed her hand before his eyes, it seemed to Boromir as if a star flashed brightly before him, and he felt peace overtake him. The breeze stirring through the rustling mallorn leaves sung to him as a mother's lullaby, and the soft turf beneath him beckoned his weary body to slumber upon it. Around him the arms of the Elven maid were laced, and he felt no pain or strife in her nearness, and surrendered willingly to the tranquility which lulled him into careless oblivion. 

For many long hours Boromir lay in this state of nothingness, untroubled and untouched by any force in all the world. Many dreams were sent to him, borne on the fair white hands of the one who called herself Illisien, each a tiny jewel which lodged itself deep into the recesses of his tormented heart. There in the realms of slumber, where men may walk deep into the hidden depths of their spirits freely, Illisien Dream-gifted laid before Boromir all the contents of his mind and heart for him to see clearly without obstruction. 

As if they were autumn lovers, Boromir lay carelessly upon the lap of Illisien, her slender fingers entwining a crown of yellow _elanor_ blossoms into his raven hair. Never happier had Boromir felt, as he lay completely at his ease and pleasure. He looked upon the beautiful Elf maiden as a man would look upon the wife he had been long bound to in joy. The weariness of his long travels far from the boundaries of Gondor had fallen from his brow, and all thoughts of the Ring had left him. Indeed his manner could only be properly called a dreamlike state, for that it truly was. Illisien had been endowed with gifts of Sight and Illusion by her mistress Galadriel, and it was with these she worked now. Presently her ruse was not known to Boromir, and for now she would consent to the fancies which he introduced into his dreams; indeed she welcomed them, for they encouraged trust and confidence in the cautious Man. 

Boromir's rough hand reached up to gently touch the smooth white skin of the maiden, his eyes shining with affection. Never had he felt like this, and truth be told he'd had no use for romance, much preferring the passion of the battlefield over that of love. He had no need for a woman to keep him tied down to her needs, to put him to the agony of obligation. His joy he found in his long blade and the respect and reverence it gained him among his men, among even kings of men. Why be burdened with a troublesome maid when he could sit in his father's hall while bards sang of his own toils of duty? 

These thoughts again came to him as he languished under the high eaves of the mallorn trees, and for a moment he moved to brush them aside with the lightness of passing dreams, but they hardened and stood unmoved on the porch of his mind. These had been principles that he had held close to him since the first maiden of Gondorian halls had haunted his steps with giggles and coy grins. Why now should they be cast aside so carelessly? A frown settled on his brow as he wrestled with these things, wondering all the while where these long-held morals had been when this guileful maiden approached his heart. 

"Have no cares, Son of Gondor," Illisien said lightly, her slender hand gliding over his knotted forehead. "Not yet have you shouldered the burden of the crown, and thus you are not yet beholden to eternal worry. Here in Lorien let the twinkling Elf lights shine in your strong eyes and be merry." 

A shadow of a smile fluttered over his features, but he could not hold it. "Strange thoughts have come to me of late, and I cannot shake them. Tell me, how can it be that we have found each other? I am no amorous poet, but I feel as if my heart were trilling like a silly bird who knows nothing of the troubles in the world. And yet before all I hold dear I have sworn to uphold the merits of my sword forever in the face of even the most beautiful of maids. Is it some spell you have woven over my heart, or have I at last gone mad?" 

"Always have you loved me," Illisien answered easily, never faltering. "I am the bright phantom haunting your dreams, the birdsong whistling sweet words to you in the night, the elusive rapture which you desired in the most hidden reaches of your soul, but ever forbade yourself from capturing." 

Almost had Boromir's mind accepted the bewitchment spoke with her clever Elvish tongue, and had his eyes not strayed to a far bower where sat a weighted and haggard figure, it would have. Who was that man, whose strong shoulders were bent and whose hands had seen many years gripping the hilt of a sword? In a flash bright and terrible before Boromir's eyes came a vision of a similar man, weary but loathe to surrender, smiting down a fray of snarling enemies in the darkness of many foul caverns far from this fair forest. He was battling with all the tenacity of a she-bear fighting to protect her cubs, but Boromir had the most curious feeling that perhaps he was fighting not for the protection of his life, or even the life of his companions, but for the safekeeping of something far more precious and dear to him than even life. Something which was like a sheathed sword: seemingly tame and innocent until it fell into the hands of a powerful man, in which it could do extraordinary things. 

Farther his memory roved, back into the light, though even it had been tarnished and made unwelcome upon the frozen snows which lay thickly about. There the man stood again more clearly than before, with his shield hard and heavy upon his back, and his cheeks red and lined from hard toil and cold, and back and back and back, til the visions melded into one where they had begun. Always the man felt that a great and awesome power lay in his grasp; so near its might made his insides quake with deep longing and desire. He felt the man's inner struggle as if it were his own; his lust to wield this power overtaking all else in his thoughts. What grand things he could do with this gift! Yet still he felt the lingering evil of this thing, this most formidable of weapons, and he knew the wrongs his lust wrought on his heart, and also that he had barely strength left to resist it. 

When again he saw the branches of Lorien overhead, he found himself upright and clinging desperately to the cool garment of Illisien. She firmly grasped one of his strong hands with one of her own, her other pressing his staggered head into her breast. He heard the light, staunch beat of her heart, a rhythm both soothing and wild, like the sound of a forest waterfall, and slowly his own hammering heartbeat steadied. 

"Evil dreams have come to me, Illisien. You are Elven-wise; tell me, what do they mean?" Boromir asked when he had caught his breath again. Looking up at the maid he glimpsed a fleeting frown pass over her features. He felt as if a veil were lifted from his wide, dazzled eyes, and moved to extract himself from the Elf's embrace, though he felt still a strange relish in the touch of their skin. 

"These times are dark," Illisien replied gravely, seeing that her fantasies had failed, for no solace would Boromir have, even here in sheltered Lorien. "Great journeys have you undertook in recent months, but even greater still have you to make under omnipotent Shadow. Many eminent choices lay heavily on your heart. You despair, but you will take no comfort." She brought her hand to his face and he saw the world again with his own downcast eyes, and even Lorien felt again as if it were draped in the lifeless and yet deathless ages. 

"What cruel enchantments have you directed upon me? I asked not for foolish Elf-magic to meddle with my mind." Boromir said sharply, again feeling as if his deepest contemplations had been laid out for all the world to see. Galadriel had done the same, making him feel naked and juvenile in her grand presence, forcing him to clutch at his guilty thoughts all the more fiercely. 

"You hold your demons far too close to you, Boromir of Gondor. Let me . . ." 

"My demons are my own!" He bellowed in response, spittle flying from his mouth in his careless fury. "Get away, witch!" 

A great look of sadness fell over Illisien's face, like a shadow over the ripe moon, and she knew for good that all her kind gestures had foundered. Here was a man who had lost all hope, and no longer sought to gain it back again. Once he had been a strong man of pure will, but it had been long since he walked light paths under sunlight, and since then his heart had grown cold. Illisien felt great sorrow, for she sensed strongly an ill omen had come into the ranks of the Fellowship with this man who had been led astray by fancies of the One Ring. 

She glanced again at the man who stood with his chest heaving, his face red and eyes wide with anger, and with all her heart reached out to him. The anger seemed to melt away, but with it went all his strength, and she watched him crumble to the ground in anguish. Lightly, she touched his arm, but he shrugged his powerful shoulder and turned his back to her. There was nothing more in her power to do, so with a heart heavier than she had felt in many a long year, Illisien departed.


	2. 2

**Straying into Dream**

The days in Lothlorien should have been cheerful and free from the worries the Fellowship had been constantly shouldering since their parting from Elrond, but Boromir wandered listlessly about, forever tormented by the things he had learned about himself and the Ring in the company of Illisien. Now he understood that the man that he had seen in his dreams had been no stranger, but himself. Afresh in his mind he came aware of just how strong a hold the Ring had on him, and knew that he was loathe to loosen its grip. He saw his father's face in his mind's eye, and knew what great things the Ring could do for Gondor, he saw the careworn and dispirited armies of Men cheering as those of the Enemy perished forever into dark gloom, never to trouble Middle-earth again. He saw these things and trembled, deep within his soul. 

The care and compassion from his companions brought him no remedy, nor did the fair faces and works of the Elves, though all about him lay splendor and beauty. Boromir long thought of the great white City where his father dwelt, ever under siege by the servants of the Dark Lord, the great warriors of Gondor dwindling day by day. He would bring them relief if he could; he had pledged that by his life or death he would throw back the enemies of the White Tower. But still he sorrowed, for he knew that he had not power enough in his sword to defeat them, and knew that without some miracle all hope for the peoples of Middle-earth was lost. Ever was the Ring on his mind, though he tried with all his might to cast those evil thoughts aside. Too clearly had he seen the road to his demise in his dreams, and to this one last shred of faith he clung, willing himself to forsake that path for another. 

Time was progressing. Soon, the Fellowship would be passing from underneath the eaves of the Wood, and still Boromir felt no safer from his evil lust. He thought of himself with a deep disgust, gazing at his rough hands as if they were grotesque and villainous things. His mood was prone to evil undulations, sometimes his self-loathing growing into a fierce beast which clawed him unmercifully, sometimes his terror looming frighteningly over him, cowing him into some dark, dead corner of the wood. The Elves, with their unmeasurable wisdom which saw these things weighting the troubled Man, avoided him, lest his madness were to overtake them. Boromir himself saw little of his companions, his last hope that the same delirium did not poison their minds as it had his. 

But the woods of Lothlorien were not wholly without their magicks. None could tread beneath the glinting silver leaves of the mallorns with evil tearing at their backs and be long affected whilst they dwelt there. Not even Boromir's demons could grind against his will totally, and after the first few days his madness left him, but he kept a grim clarity in his vision and his manner. None could entirely rouse him from his doom and gloom demeanor. The knowledge that soon he would have to face his uncontrollable longing on his own, with no ancient trees or Elf-magic to protect his friends laid heavily on every step. He wondered how long he could hold out after they left the boundaries of the Wood. 

The night before they were to depart, Boromir lie awake in his bower, worry glancing his face. Aragorn had been to see him that day, and Boromir knew that the captain of the Fellowship had felt the anguish surrounding him, if he did not know exactly its cause. But Aragorn's gaze had not seemed kind and anxious, to Boromir it was a hard stare of one who suspected his evils. Ever the people here tormented them with their knowing looks, their taunting scrutiny, Galadriel, Illisien, Aragorn, all. 

How dare they look at him as if he were filth, slimy filth of the same breed of that skulking creature which had taken the Ring before? He was next in line to be the Steward of Gondor, most powerful of Men in Middle-earth! It was they who were blinded by their weaknesses, not he; only Boromir knew the truth, only he saw the wonders of the Ring and did not fear them. Were they to end this foolish parade across the cursed, forsaken lands ringing his great county, were Boromir to take the Ring to his father, or even take it for himself, all this nonsense would cease. Never again would the Dark Lord weigh heavy on their minds, never again would the foul foot of an Orc take one step toward them in evil bidding. 

Deep inside him Boromir felt his heart surging with unrestrained passion, with power. He sprang from his soft Elvish bed, his hands aching for his sword, aching to make an end to the absurd follies that had diseased the minds of the Fellowship. They were fools, all of them! Fools! 

"Boromir?" A voice, light, startled. Had he spoken aloud? Echoing in the dim corners of his mind, he heard his harsh cries bellowing into the darkness, shattering his thinning will. What madness had overcome him? His heart bowed and fell silent again: the black beast had been stayed by that voice in the night. He turned, and upon the hill, framed in glowing glory between to broad mallorn trunks, stood Illisien. He struggled to see her as he had before, the mocking princess, the Elven witch, but found that he could not. She stood there, the moonlight gleaming off her long golden locks, the worry on her face plain to his heart. 

"Boromir!" She cried again, running to him as he collapsed on the ground in tearing agony. He felt as if the great hand of Sauron himself were pressing on his breast, crushing his very heart. His breath would not come, his hands lay helpless at his sides, no cry for rescue could he utter. But she was there. With all her strength the Elven maid laid her hands on his face, and whispered her Elvish words, louder and louder until the Man could hear nothing else. All grew dark, no longer could he make out the mallorn leaves against the blackness of the sky, but she laid her hands on his eyes and all he could see was her lovely face. With a final desperate cry she touched her ageless lips to his and he felt life and breath return to him in a shattering blow. He lay gasping in her arms when finally the affliction stopped. 

"I have not power to fully turn your heart from Sauron's grasp, Son of Gondor, not even my mistress Galadriel holds that might, but have peace for a little while. Do not leave this earth yet, when you still have great paths to tread." She cradled his head in her hands, feeling his agony rip deep inside her trembling heart. His anger, his pain, his shame and sorrow were hers for but a moment, one precious twinkling that this great man deserved at least. Tears she thought long lost to her in the deathless ages fell from her eyes, splashing pitifully on the man's face, waking him from all shadows and deceits for a moment, grasping at his heart like a child brokenhearted and abandoned. 

"I cannot love you," he whispered, and she held him as she cried. 

Slowly, Illisien stood, throwing off her Elvish circlet with a cry. With it she flung away the ancient dignity she had been graced with, feeling neither graced nor dignified. She saw now her gift, to haunt the dreams of men and infiltrate their hearts, had been a curse, and she condemned her mistress Galadriel for all the pain she felt. Her purpose broken, and with no fruits to show for her labors, what now did this maiden have to live for? Despair clung to her like dewdrops in the early morn, but she could not yet give up, while still perhaps there was a thread of hope to nourish. 

She knelt down beside Boromir, and took his hand. Looking at her full in the face, she seemed both wild and fair, and he could hear her untamed heart beating fiercely in her breast. 

"Listen to me, if yet you have, Boromir of Gondor," she said. "I know what it is you feel in your heart, I know for I have felt it myself, if but for a while. Still I feel it, like a shadow where no light can enter. I fear that no hand, good or ill, can turn this evil from you, but I will you to take heart. You may yet have dark tracks to trace, but know this that I have seen: in glory and in honor you shall pass, flaming like a star in the heavens. You shall clutch your sword until the end, and many of your enemies shall meet their downfall by your stroke. You will not have lived for nothing, Lord of Men, and ever shall you be remembered in the most favored place of men's spirits. 

"One last gift I give to you, while my powers still permit," She touched his brow, and her bright face vanished from his sight. Ever his most sacred principles would hold intact. 


	3. 3

**Straying into Dream**

"Wake, friend, long have you slept this last morning," Boromir saw Aragorn, his captain, standing above him in the glimmering daybreak. "My heart rejoices, for it has been many nights since I saw you at rest." 

Boromir looked all about him, his breath suddenly caught in his throat. "Do you come to me alone, brother? I feel as if some other walked with you that I cannot see, that some voice spoke which I cannot hear." 

A sad smile passed over Aragorn's face, and he seemed altogether different from the man he had become in Boromir's eyes over the past weeks. "It was only a bird passing through the branches, sweetly singing its bright birdsong into the morning dawn." 

"I should like to hear that song again, if ever we end this fateful trek. I feel somehow lighter than I have in an age, like I could sing up in the eaves as well." He clapped Aragorn on the back and laughed lightheartedly before leaving his friend in favor of the others. When he turned back to let the Ranger catch up, he was no where to be found. Somewhere in the sparkling leaves high above, a bird's silvery tune proclaimed sadly his departure. 


End file.
